


the road is a long way yet

by teaDragon



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Background Bofur/Nori - Freeform, Bilbo is a sassy little hobbit, Hurt/Comfort, Introspection, M/M, Modern Middle Earth, Multi, Road Trips, background arwen/tauriel - Freeform, there's some metaphore here but I'm not sure what it is, with family issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-22
Updated: 2018-12-22
Packaged: 2019-09-24 16:37:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,387
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17104223
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/teaDragon/pseuds/teaDragon
Summary: Bilbo will not be spending Yule in the Shire. He will not be visiting with his family. Oh no. Notthisyear. No snide, passive-aggressive remarks and torturously dull conversations for him! Instead, Bilbo will be spending his first Yule away from home up in the Blue Mountains with his two wonderful dwarven boyfriends and their family. It's a nine hour drive through the mountains to get there, but Bilbo's not about to let that stop him.The thing is, trouble doesn't always come from what we find on the road; Sometimes it comes from what you bring with you, and what you try to leave behind.





	the road is a long way yet

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mithrilbikini (liasangria)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/liasangria/gifts).



> Happy Hobbit Holiday mithribikini! :D
> 
> The prompt ran away from me a little, but I do hope you enjoy it.

“For the last time, no. I’m not going on skype.” Bilbo shifted his grip on the phone, tucking it between his shoulder and his ear. 

“Why not?” came Thorin’s voice.

“I told you, I’m er…” 

He glanced guiltily at the boxes and wrapping paper strewn about the room. It looked like the murder scene of Father Yule’s workshop, shiny bows and tissue paper everywhere (the good kind, not the cheap stuff), discarded gift bags and little tags strewn about, rolls of shiny wrapping paper and the little slivers and pieces he’d cut off. Off to the very corner of the little room of the flat he’d called home for the last two years was a suitcase, open and half filled, judging him silently. 

“…rather a bit further behind on packing then I’d like to be” he continued, “and I can’t be distracted.”

“Is that all we are to you,” came Dwalin’s voice this time. “A distraction?”

“Ibinê, you wound us.”

Bilbo snorted. “Oh, please. You, Thorin Oakenshield, are one giant distraction on legs. And _you_ Dwalin, are almost worse. I can hear you sniggering, don’t think I can’t.”

“Bilbo” crooned Dwalin’s voice down the line. “Can ye blame us for wanting to see yer pretty face? Been far too long now.”

“Only a month.” Nimble fingers smoothed cello tape over the line where two edges of wrapping met. He quickly added another rectangle of tape just to be sure. “All right, I’ll admit. It’s been one bloody _long_ month.”

“Tell me about it.”

“I’m not going to miss anything here, let me tell you.”

There was a heavy silence down the line as Bilbo flipped the package over, working around the sides and folding the wrapping in place.

“Bilbo, are you sure you want to come up for Yule?”

“What? Of course I’m bloody well sure.” The hobbit applied the next piece of cello tape with more force then sticky necessary. “Unless you’ve both decided you’d be happier without.”

“’Course not—“

“Ghivashel”

“We’re only worried—“

“Well you can stop! I’ve made up my mind and that’s final. This has been planned for weeks and I have my father’s bloody blessing on this. Not that _not_ having it would have changed anything. He understands, he does.” Bilbo sniffed. “Got plenty of family anyway.”

“That doesn’t—“

“Gêdel—”

There were a few unintelligible sounds down the line. Thorin’s voice came over next. “You know you’re as good as family to us Bilbo.”

“Fridís has all but adopted you,” added Dwalin.

“Aye, don’t be surprised if Fili and Kili throw a tantrum when you have to leave.”

Bilbo smiled. “Your nephews are well into their teens, not toddlers.”

“Has anyone told them that?”

Dwalin suddenly gave a long groan. “Bilbo. Come on skype. We want to see yer pretty face.”

“Oh? Is that all I am, just a pretty face?”

“Why don’t you come on and we’ll tell you what else of yours is pretty.”

“Mmm.”

“Nice try.”

“Maybe you’ll see something you like.”

Bilbo’s hands slowed. “Do I have any reason to suspect my two gorgeous hairy lumps of dwarves are anything but the very picture of decency, at this very moment?”

“Want to find out?”

He was temped. Oh he was tempted.

“No, no, _no!_ I’m working! I don’t care if you two are half-naked on the rug in front of a bloody fire, I need to focus.”

There was sniggering down the line. “He got the half naked right,” came Thorin’s low rumble. “Should we relocate to the rug, Bilbo?”

“Ha ha.” The hobbit stuck the tip of his tongue out the side of his mouth, eyes narrowing in concentration as he looped a length of shining golden ribbon around the box. A square of tape on the bottom held it in place as he righted it and tied the bow off. “Bugger off. ‘M busy.”

“That a suggestion?”

“It is if it’ll make you stop pestering me.”

“ _Pestering_ ,” muttered Thorin, sounding very hurt by the suggestion.

“Wouldn’t it help to have your hands free?”

“My hands are free. I’m using this wonderful thing called a shoulder to hold the bloody phone in place. The last thing I need is the two of you staring at me while I try to pack.”

“Sounds fine to me.”

“Why don’t you switch to speaker phone?”

“I don’t know how! And I don’t want to spend a bloody hour trying to figure it out. Oh, do stop sniggering, will you? My major is literature not technology.”

“Didn’t know you needed a major in tech to turn on speaker phone.”

“Might as well! Look, if I’m going to be insulted, I shall be forced to hang up and seek more pleasant company.”

“Aww, we don’t mean it, Ghivashel.”

“What pleasant company? You’ve got another someone stashed down there we don’t know about?”

“I was referring to my room full of things that need packing. Because that’s literally better company than you two, and the _abuse_ I’m being subjected to!” He huffed dramatically.

“Ibinê” crooned Thorin, Dwalin trying not to laugh.

There was a sigh down the phone. “I suppose we’ll have to wait until Friday to see you then.”

“I suppose you shall.” Bilbo reached for his scissors only to find them missing. A quick scan of the floor revealed them half hidden behind a roll of wrapping paper. He reached for them, contorting awkwardly to hold the phone in place and not disrupt his nearly finished wrapping in his lap.

“Bilbo, are you sure you don’t want one of us to pick you up?”

“It’s no trouble.”

“No trouble, _really_.” The hobbit scoffed. “We’ve been over this. It’s a nine hour drive _one_ way.” 

“Exactly. You’re not the most experienced driver.”

“Oh _bah_.”

“These are mountain roads, Bilbo. They can be treacherous.”

“I’ve figured out the route I’m taking and both of you have gone over it and made sure it’s the safest way.” He shifted the phone. “Actually, I think more then half of your family’s gone of the blasted thing at this point. It’s fine. I’ll know if I’ve taken a wrong turn.”

“Can’t blame us for worrying,” muttered Dwalin sourly.

“I can handle country roads. It’s traffic and highways I don’t like. Ugh, horrible nasty things! They make you _merge_ and cut across three lanes at once! Dreadful mannish inventions.” 

Bilbo realized with a shock he sounded exactly like his father grousing on about big folk and quickly corrected himself. “I’ve nothing against bigger folk, you understand, I just do _not_ want to be on their highways.”

“Course not.”

“We just want you to get here safely.”

“Good. So do I, which is why I have gone along with all the silly precautions you’ve both dumped on me.”

“Just so long as you’re careful.”

“I will be. Now stop worrying, both of you! It’ll be just fine. You’ll see.”

~*~

The drive from the Bree University up to the Blue Mountains was a long one. It would take Bilbo a loose five hours to reach the mountains themselves, and then another four to navigate them, through to the city of Nogrod and then nearly around to the far side of the mountain range to where Thorin’s family lived on the outskirts of the city.

Bilbo had always liked maps, something he was grateful for considering how very much he’d been starting at them in the last week. This stretch he felt he must know driving backwards with one eye shut. 

Even with as little experience traveling as Bilbo had (outside of his armchair that was, he was an avid reader and general consumer of media) he knew enough that what was shown on the page rarely looked much like its actual physical counterpart. He was prepared for trouble. He’d looked up everything that could go wrong and written out multiple alternate routes and memorized the emergency numbers for the region just in case. He wasn’t going to let something like the weather stop him from seeing his dwarves.

The last month had been spent cooped up in his little off-campus flat, desperately cramming for finals and sustaining largely off of greasy takeaway and increasingly complicated lattés *, all while his two wonderful dwarven boyfriends had gone home for the holidays early. Bilbo had been forced to make do with skype calls and texting, but it simply wasn’t enough.

*He’d upped his usual dosage of one extra shot of espresso to two, and in those last desperate days had finally been pushed to three. He’d developed an alarming nervous laugh and taken to drumming his fingers frantically on any remotely flat surface near the end, but it had gotten him through ‘Trade Alliances of the Third Age 205’ so it had been _worth_ it).

It had been rough on all of them, this separation. Thorin and Dwalin had finished their exams a month ago (the lucky bastards) and had gone to spend the winter holidays with their families in the Blue Mountains. Sharing a great uncle meant their families were close to each other, and though they were something like very distant cousins they’d grown up together, and only grown closer with age.

This Yule would be the first Bilbo was to spend with them. It was also the first he would be away from his own family in the Shire. 

More’s the pity.

Not that he was spending the Yuletide away from the Shire. The pity was that this was the first year to date he had gotten away from the conservative, xenophobic, gossipy, self-important, stuck-up, backwater fat heads that he was cursed to call his family.

It wasn’t a very nice thing to say about someone, but Bilbo admitted to himself that they probably didn’t deserve such niceties and he really oughtn’t feel as guilty as he did thinking it.

The thing was, Bilbo was tired. In fact he was exhausted, which tended to muddle and morally compromise even the most stalwart of the straight and narrow*. It felt like he had been going full stop for the last two months with his exams and papers. Once he got to Thorin’s place, then he could relax. He’d be with his dwarves again, they could share a bed again, and Bilbo could finally get a good night’s sleep with his two dwarf-shaped personalized heaters laying next to him all night.

*If he wasn’t feeling so tired, Bilbo would have made a very funny joke about it being impossible for him to be straight _or_ narrow with his round hobbit genes and romantic inclinations. 

He just had to get there.

~*~

As was previously mentioned, Bilbo was exhausted. Naturally, that meant the morning of the trip he slept right through his alarm, turning the early start he planned to get into an early-ish start. He’d been plagued with unpleasant dreams of packing and rushing about looking for something he couldn’t find all night. Bilbo had woken groggily, glanced at the clock and sworn loudly in khuzdul*, jumping out of bed and making right for the kettle.

*It would have made his dwarves proud to hear he’d finally gotten the accent right. The rough sounds of khuzdul didn’t come to naturally to Bilbo with practice per-se, it was more a question of situational motivation.

The ground was slick with half melted ice when he finally started loading the car, and he managed to slip and fall on one of the many trips made out to the car from his little flat. It wasn’t a bad fall, but it was been embarrassing and had soaked through his trousers, forcing him to run back inside and change into his second best corduroys. 

At 10:06 am, he closed the trunk of his little car for the last time and climbed inside. Bilbo fired off a quick text to Dwalin and Thorin, pulled out the small stack of directions and maps onto the passenger seat, took a deep breath, and started the car. 

Bree was a winding city, full of narrow cobbled streets and tall crooked buildings. It lacked the whimsical fairy tale feel one might be tempted to associate with such imagery and had more of the looming stranger about it. And mud. You really couldn’t forget the mud. Despite this (or perhaps because of it) Bree had a fantastic nightlife, which Bilbo was happy to take advantage of when he could be lured away from his room. And it was one of the most multicultural hubs in all of Arda, dwarves, hobbits, humans and even elves living alongside each other in the muddy, damp day to day of life.

It made for awkward driving, these ancient little streets intended for nothing wider than a wagon. Bilbo managed well enough, and with only one or two minor mishaps and a near stalemate with a poorly timed pick-up truck in a one-way street, he was soon out the west gate of the city and onto the expressway west.

He made good time for the first few hours.

The further away from Bree he drove, the more the muddy fields were sprinkled with proper snow. Bree existed in some strange sub-climate that turned all snow into half-hearted slush at best and offered grey overcast skies all year round. It cheered him greatly to see snow again, little flurries flying at the windshield and sticking in the grass along the side of the road.

Midday had come with the bright grey skies of a sunny winter day and a fine layer of snow along the ground, hiding the sad looking plains from view. Bilbo’s internal clock* had just informed him it was lunchtime when he passed the turn off for the Shire.

*It is said a dwarf’s internal clock could tell them the time of day down to the half hour after days spent in the darkest depths of a mine. It had to do with stone sense and possibly some sort of echo-location in their feet. In contrast, a hobbit’s internal clock is connected directly to their stomachs. Even the very most adventurous fauntling will infallibly know exactly when tea-time is and how many meals they have to catch up on if they’ve been out tramping through the Shire all day.

Right on cue his phone lit up and started buzzing. Risking a glance at it revealed the culprit.

“Lobelia,” he spat, scowling at the road ahead of him. 

To answer or not to answer?

Well. He wouldn’t be seeing her until spring. Might as well.

Speaker phone it was.

“Hullo dear Lobelia,” he greeted.

“Bilbo Baggins!” She shrieked, voice shrill and tinny through the phone. “How dare you abandon your father!”

“Lovely to hear from you as well.”

“Your own family! Such disgrace! And all so you can run off with those awful brutes—“

“It’s always a pleasure to hear you voice, it really keeps me going—“

“You ought to be grateful your dear mother, bless her soul, isn’t here to see what—“

“And that will be _quite_ enough Lobelia,” hissed Bilbo. “Or need I remind you who exactly was squabbling over cutlery at my very same dear mother’s funeral? I’d barley finished my speech before you were eyeing what everyone else had been left and complaining you out to have had more.”

“How _dare_ you imply—“

“I’m not implying anything. I’m saying what everyone knows but won’t say out of politeness. I rather think we’re past that, you and I, aren’t we?”

“Have you no decency? Leaving your father so you can chase after two-two vile, crude, illiterate _dwarves_ \--” she all but spat the word, “—as if one wasn’t bad enough.”

“Now now Lobelia dear. There’s no need to be jealous. Some people simply can’t handle more than one partner at a time.” He enjoyed hearing her splutter down the line. “My father encouraged me to go, thank you very much for your concern,” he continued before she could recover. “I’m only too happy to tell you that I shall have a lovely time with both of my very handsome and very built dwarves.”

“Well I _never_! I—“

“And really Lobelia, illiterate? This coming from someone who barely got through one year of college before deciding she’d rather spend her time pretending to be a receptionist at her father’s company and spending time and business money shopping online? You can hardly talk. Heavens, both of mine have degrees and are fluent in two languages. “

“You watch yourself, Bilbo Baggins. One of these days—“

“Thanks ever so, I shall!”

Bilbo hung up.

The high from that carried him through one of the trickier bits of highways he’s have to cross, and led to perhaps his most aggressive merging maneuver he’d ever pulled off.

Looks like Lobelia was good for something.

He quietly fumed to himself, feeling equally proud and frustrated with the whole thing. He was traveling to spend Yule with his dwarves! He didn’t want to think about his family in the Shire.

Perhaps it was something about how the highway became less crowded and the lanes reduced down to two and the land around him began to look more and more rugged as he sped by the outskirts of the gentle land he had called home that made it impossible to think of much else.

Bilbo had always liked long car rides, rare as they were. As a fauntling he would stare out the window with his nose nearly pressed against the glass, daydreaming about the world rushing by and filling it with all the monsters from his mother’s stories.

Now he found the only monsters inhabiting it were the ones he brought himself.

Was it really so morally depraved to spend Yule with his two loving boyfriends and their families? Last Holiday season he’d gone home, despite having very much wanting to see Dwalin and Thorin. It had been bloody awful. There’d been no end of questions about what he was doing, who was he seeing, why wasn’t he seeing some nice hobbit lass and really, one dwarf boyfriend was more than enough, but _two?_

Only, of course, the Bagginses would never say anything outright. Oh no.

The Bagginses could be surprisingly open minded, but you’d never know because they’d be too busy passive aggressively critiquing your manners, punctuality, flower arrangements and selection of tea pastries laid out in dissatisfied offering. Bilbo knew he had an uncle on his father’s side who was gay. The family was officially ‘fine’ with it. Just fine. And that was the end of it. No one would ever talk about it! Good heavens. Perish the thought. They talked about the price of oranges, water filtering, recycling and what was sorted where and how it was done, gardening, and Bilbo’s very favourite, how everyone had got here today and which roads they took. 

It was the firm belief of the Baggins family that some conversations never got old; they aged like fine wine. And if you gagged on it, then it was your own fault for having such an underdeveloped palate.

Small, safe things were what you talked about if you talked at all. If anyone started veering off into unsafe territory, old Mungo or Gladys would give you The Look and the conversation would be tactfully changed.

Heavens forbid anyone should say anything meaningful!

Bilbo didn’t think he’d had one single meaningful conversation with any of his uncles on the Baggins side, and only one of his aunt’s had made a clumsy misplaced attempt to comfort him after his mother had died. There had been a lot of ‘there there’s and timid little shoulder pats, and then Aunt Milda had wandered off looking misty eyed. It was more then he’d gotten from any other aunt or uncle.

Lobelia was perhaps the exception, though she had married into the Baggins clan so it was to be expected. She thrived on all the snide little passive-aggressive remarks and significant well placed sneers behind so-and-so’s back. The difference was, as soon as the venerable elders were looking away, she’d go for the kill. Bilbo could almost admire her some days. Things were never dull with her around, though she had always hated him for having Bag End, something she desperately wanted. 

Some of his younger Baggins cousins weren’t bad. Drogo he rather liked. Linda and Masiy were rather fun too if you got them on their own. Recently however, all his cousins had been running off and getting engaged and married and having fauntlings, and between all of that there really wasn’t much space for more than a word of two before they were swept off to be fawned over by the older generation.

Well. Not this year.

Oh no.

This year Bilbo would _not_ be driven to folding his napkin into elaborate shapes at the table while trying everything he could not to fall asleep. Oh no. He’d _tried_ contributing to conversations, he really had, and it was almost worse to hear all of his attempts sizzle out, uncomfortable laughter and reproachful silences shushing him up time and again.

This year, Bilbo would be spending the holidays with his dwarves, who appreciated and _enjoyed_ his company, thank you ever so much, please don’t let the door hit you on the way out!

It’s not like anyone would really miss him anyway back in Hobbiton. Lobelia could take her desperate attempts at guilt tripping and go stick it right up her umbrella!

The whole thing had Bilbo so bothered that he nearly drove through lunch, his stomach chiming in a informing him it was high time for a quick bite to eat just past midday.

Luckily the sign for a little stop over flashed by not five minutes later. Bilbo filled up on gas and settled down in a cheap little coffee shop, a steaming cup of tea and a somewhat disappointing sandwich on the sticky table in front him. He scrolled through his texts as he chewed, sandwich in one hand.

Fili and Kili had sent him a few messages consisting of entirely emojis and something his phone wouldn’t load. He responded in kind, spending a good minute scrolling through his emoji section and settling on a mesh-mash of animals and food and what seemed to be their favourite, the explosion symbol.

Thorin had texted him again, asking how the drive was going and if he needed help.

Silly dwarf.

Dwalin too had left him a text, his consisting of a picture of a platter of biscuits under cling wrap, and the message to get there soon, but be careful.

Bilbo’s eyes drifted to the contact under them. 

_Bungo Baggins_

That guilty feeling crept up on him again. He huffed.

This was ridiculous. He was a grown hobbit. He’d talked to his father just two days ago! Bungo was fine. He was staying with his siblings, something they hadn’t done in ages, and had been perfectly happy to get the chance last Bilbo had talked to him.

“Bloody Lobelia,” he grumbled, setting the phone down in irritation.

Something about his tea didn’t set right with him. He’d been thirsty, but the feeling hadn’t gone away after drinking it. Hadn’t done much to help his nose, which had been stuffy all morning. 

Bilbo had written the majority of a twelve-page essay on ‘The History of Sindarin through the third age’ the night before it was due with a nasty migraine last semester and still managed a 78%. A stuffy nose was nothing he couldn’t handle. 

He drained the rest of his tea, grimacing a little at the feel against the back of his throat.

Then he was back in the car and on the highway again.

~*~

The Blue Mountains loomed before him, a huge wall of rock going as far north and south as the eye could see, disappearing off into the white-grey gloom. While there had been flurries the first few hours of Bilbo’s drive, fat, lazy snowflakes now drifted down in waves, the sky a near white.

It was beautiful. Bilbo had read all about mountains. He’d had a picture of Erebor* across from his bed back in his little flat. Even since he was a fauntling sitting in front of the fire and hanging onto his mother’s every word of the wild world had he wanted to see mountains.

* It had barely been a week after the three of them had started dating officially when Thorin had sheepishly presented him with the poster. Bilbo had been rambling about how he longed to travel and see _real_ mountains, and Thorin thought he might like it. Bilbo did. 

These didn’t disappoint.

Resisting the sudden urge to roll down the window and stick his head out of it like a dog, tasting the air in excitement, Bilbo drumming his fingers against the steering wheel instead, eyes bright.

Only a few more hours to go.

This was the last and trickiest section of the drive. It was also the bit he was most worried about. Historically speaking, hobbits and heights did not go together. As a general rule, they didn’t like things much taller than they were. Trees were perhaps an exception, but even then hobbits preferred shorter, chubbier trees that bore fruits and littered their flowers ever which way in the summer.

Bilbo was an adventurous sort, but heights tended to make him a little light headed. The road he would take hugged the side of the mountain, took him around the great city of Nogrod and out the far side of the mountain range. 

Nonetheless, his sense of awe and joy at finally getting to strike something off his bucket list kept Bilbo’s spirits high as he drove up to the foot of the mountains.

~*~

Up and around the side of the mountains the road climbed, Bilbo driving awestruck, caught up in the thrill of being next to something so big. Thankfully there wasn’t much traffic, and it was only rarely he passed another car. Dwarves built to last, and nowhere did they do this better then with mountains themselves. In, under, around or over, give a dwarf any of a mountain to work with and it was like music. The deep, rumbley music that you feel in your very bones. This road so far, had only gone alongside the mountain, ducking inside for short periods of time in smooth tunnels light up by orange lights that passed in a rush.

It was mesmerizing. For all Bilbo felt that he was in the presence of some great primordial being, it was a very cautious hobbit that took the sweeping highs and lows of the road, hands clasped firmly around the wheel and driving a steady 5 miles under the speed limit. 

He wanted to enjoy the experience, not die from it.

It was when he passed the turn off that led down to Nogrod proper that he first became properly worried. Up until now he had been doing an excellent job of ignoring his stuffed up nose, increasingly dry eyes and throat that seemed to be holding a grudge against something he had done, feeling sorer and more dry the longer he drove. But as he peeked over at the sweeping road curving down into the city, a huge sea of buildings built right down and up the sides of the mountains, his head began to spin.

Bilbo’s hands tightened on the wheel to steady himself, quickly looking away and keeping his eyes firmly on the solid ground before him. Nausea sprouted in his belly, creeping up the back of his throat worryingly. He swallowed harshly and kept driving, willing the feeling to go away.

It didn’t.

The sun had begun to set, early as it was this time of year, turning the white gloom to a darker grey all around. The lights on the side of the road began to bother his eyes, making him wince if he looked directly at them. 

He was nearly there. There was only another two and a half hours to drive.

Now, the Took family. 

Bilbo took a deep breath as the road made a steep turn, hugging the curve of the mountain. 

The Tooks were as different from the Bagginses as apples were from well-aged wine. If the Bagginses were the sort to make mortal enemies, and if the Tooks didn’t feel it was below them to give the Bagginess such an impressive title, that is what they would be to each other.

Bagginses were staunchly respectable and utterly predictable. Tooks ran off and had adventures and generally lived loud, expensive, obnoxious lives. They enjoyed the scandal of it all, not that anyone but a hobbit would consider their lifestyle a scandal. As it was, both families did their best to ignore the other, as it made going about their own businesses so much more pleasant for everyone involved.

And then one summer day, Belladonna Took had declared to all and sundry that she was going to marry timid Bungo Baggins and wouldn’t have any other.

It had perhaps come as a greater shock to no one but Bungo himself, who’d thought his crush on Belladonna to be tragically one-sided and had consoled himself to mooning over the Took lass from afar and long nights of sighing over his knitting in private.

Neither family had approved. 

Belladonna was not one to let such trivial things stop her, and for all Bungo was as sure and stable as a bolder, he was a deeply romantic sort under his fussily folded cravats. Bungo had been bold enough to inform his family that Belladonna was more then enough family for him, and if anyone was going to be cut out it was _them_.

Begrudgingly, both families had accepted the couple with as much grace as they could* and tried to get on with things.

*Not very much in either case.

Then Bilbo had come along.

It was a damn sight difficult growing up with the Tooks on one side and the Bagginses on the other. Both were quick to criticize (in their own respective ways) and eager to pin it on the genes from the opposing side.

You would think, to a young somewhat radically minded Bilbo living in a largely rural, conservative Shire, that his Took relatives would take to him. Things would have been much better for Bilbo if they had.

In reality, while the Tooks were allowed their adventures and scandals, they were also one of the oldest and most important families in the Shire. They held weight to their name. It was fully expected that one should have their adventures but settle down at a certain point, start a family, and go about the business of being very important and mercurial.

The adventures the Tooks had were not so very adventurous either! Some went away to school (no further then Rivendell mind you), or perhaps traveled abroad on holiday. They had this reputation of being worldly, but really there were tourists at best, usually traveling only to the more glossed over resorts to lie on sun chairs all day, talking and drinking champagne. They’d see some of the more expensive cities and come home, show off the long slideshow of pictures they’d taken and complain and boast about the trip in equal parts.

As for the scandals, the Took family was loud and brash and as much as they pulled together to put on a front, they were very much engaged in petty competitions. It was routine to try and one-up the other. It built character or some nonsense like that. They were not subtle about it. They were Tooks. They didn’t _have_ to be.

Lately it seemed even the cousins of Bilbo’s that he enjoyed being around were all getting married and having children, but doing it in a way to see who could do it better. Or faster. Or the most lavishly. There’d already been two divorces from young couples married in the last year. Family troubles weren’t hidden away like the Bagginses might do it. Oh no. With the Tooks, that was the entertainment. Airing out the metaphorical dirty laundry was as much a staple of the family get together as the napkins on the table.

Bilbo was sick of it. With the Bagginses you couldn’t talk about anything more engaging than the price of paper, and with the Tooks you could hardly get a word in before they’d go off on something, loud and brash and fully interested in themselves.

He’d had conversations consisting of great aunt Doldira asking him about school, great uncle Bardoc answering _for_ him in jest, and the whole conversation carrying on to something else without ever a word passing Bilbo’s lips. As if he was something to be talked _about_ , not to.

It was ridiculous.

To make matters worse, they did not approve of his ‘relationships’ with dwarves. Sure, he was congratulated on his conquest, which was equally insulting and mortifying enough for his Bagginses sensibilities. They expected it to be only that. Adventures were well and fine, but you had to put them away at some point and get to the business of making more loud, self important Tooks to fill the world. That he wanted a steady relationship with Dwalin and Thorin was unthinkable. It was tolerated for now, as a silly faze he’d grow out of, _the poor boy_ , still reeling from the death of his mother not three years ago now.

Perhaps the only good ting to come of his mother’s passing was that he hadn’t seen his Took family much. They never really liked Bungo, and saw little reason to invite the two of them to family get together now that Belladonna wasn’t there.

Bilbo was almost glad of it.

It made him sick.

Or maybe that was the nausea, coming on now to stay perched just behind his eyes and deep in his belly.

This was bad, Bilbo admitted to himself. He breathed slowly and carefully, noting he felt uncommonly chilled despite how high up he had turned the heater.

When he saw the turn off advertising an inn and a few shops, he took it.

Thankfully there was a drug store. Bilbo’s legs felt like rubber when he stumbled out of the car, the wind cutting right through the thick down f his jacket. The walk to the drug store from his car felt like miles, his head all stuffed up and fuzzy, his eyes unreasonably heavy.

It took much longer then it should have to find some suitable medication, and once he’d paid he hastily opened the bottle and taken as many pills as it said it was safe to do so. He started at the bottle, the words ‘fast working’ looking back at him mockingly.

After a long debate, Bilbo sloughed across the parking lot. He didn’t get into his car. He made for the shabby little motel, defeat tasting like acid in his throat.

~*~

“Hullo?”

The elf at the front desk of the Mountain Point Motel looked up from her magazine. There was a particularly miserable looking hobbit standing before her, looking like he would benefit from a long nap and a bowl of soup. 

“Hello,” she said, straightening up. “Looking for a room?”

He looked uncomfortable. “…Yes, only. Just for a few hours?”

Normally when guests asked for that they had some rather specific company in mind and had plans to make vigorous use of the bed. This clearly wasn’t the case here.

“Sure. Just drop by the desk when you’re ready to leave and I’ll add up the hours. It’s not very busy this time of year.”

“No I, I suppose not. Thank you.”

 _Bilbo Baggins_ according to his ID, filled out the small form carefully, looking very dizzy and uncomfortable the whole time.

“My name’s Celia if you need anything,” she said, watching him with concern. “Forgive me for being rude, but there is a drug store just down the way.”

“Oh. Yes, thank you. I’ve been.”

“You take care now. And Merry Yule.”

He gave a rather wobbly smile. “Yes, Merry Yule.”

Celia watched him trek down the hallway. She didn’t mind spending the night before Yule on her own, as it wasn’t something her family had ever celebrated. Clearly this was not the case for poor Mister Baggins. 

Sometimes Celia got a touch of foresight, some remainder of a more powerful skill she had inherited from a distant ancestor.

She opened her magazine again and after a quick glance to see that no one was watching, propped her feet up on the desk, leaning back contentedly in her chair. That hobbit wouldn’t be her only guest this night, she was sure of it. It was only a matter of time.

~*~

It was only for a few hours, Bilbo told himself sternly as he kicked out of his shoes. He’d just take a little nap, have some more medication, and be on his way. A quick glance at his wristwatch showed he had no chance of arriving on time.

Sitting down on the bed, Bilbo pulled out his phone and typed a quick message to Thorin and Dwalin.

_Going to be late, will arrive later tonight._

He started to put his phone away and then stopped.

_Love you both so much. See you soon._

He took a deep breath and hit send. He felt terrible. Not just his throbbing head and upset stomach. This was his first Yule away from home, and he couldn’t even get to the damn place without running into trouble.

Perhaps, he reflected, as he lay down, tugging the covers over himself, he hadn’t so much as run into trouble. It had followed him. He’d brought it himself.

Bilbo had just turned off the bedside lamp when his phone lit up, buzzing against the night table. Scrambling for it, he quickly navigated to the setting and turned off vibrations. He didn’t look at the message. What he needed was a few hours of rest without any distractions.

~*~

The alarm clock on the bedside table glared a green 9:47 PM in the darkness of the room. Bilbo peered at it miserably from where he was laying wrapped up in the covers.

He’d rested and taken medication and it hadn’t worked. Bilbo felt awful and shaky and wouldn’t trust himself to not drive straight off the side of the mountain—with or without the car.

There was nothing for it,

It was with a certain amount of dread that he took his phone from the night table, holding it close to his face with unsteady hands. 

_7 Unread messages. 3 missed calls._

Bilbo felt very much like he’d driven over the mountainside.

Thorin picked up after the first ring.

“Bilbo?”

“Um...hi. Thorin.”

“Bilbo! Where are you? Are you in trouble?”

“No, no I’m—I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to make you worry.”

There were muffled voices down the line.

“What happened?” That was Dwalin’s voice.

“It’s nothing bad, I just…wasn’t feeling well.” Tears pricked at his eyes. He swallowed with difficulty.

“Are you all right?”

“Yes, yes I’m fine. Just had to stop for a little. Too much driving I suppose. I’ll be there tomorrow morning.”

 

“Bilbo. Where are you?”

“I’m—“ he thought back, rubbing his eyes tiredly. “A motel. There was this stop over just outside of Nogrod. It won’t take me long to get there tomorrow—“

“What’s it called?”

“Urm…Mountain Point, I think.”

There were more voices now, a bunch of them all talking at once. He had probably interrupted something. Bilbo felt that guilt sinking its teeth into him again. He’d interrupted their family get together.

“Look, it’s fine. I’m sorry for worrying you.”

“Ghivashel—“

“Bilbo, you’ve nothing to be—“

“I’ll see you both tomorrow,” Bilbo said quickly. “Merry Yule. And tell everyone I said hello.”

He hung up.

Almost immediately his phone lit up again. He shoved it back onto the night table and slowly got to his feet. The streetlight outside gave enough light for the hobbit to find the small bag he’d brought in with him, and fish out the cold medication. 

“Fast working,” he muttered scornfully, taking some more.

Then he crawled back into bed, and tried his utmost not to cry.

He wanted his dad to bring him tea and fuss over him. He wanted his dad from before mom had died, the Bungo that wasn’t just holding on and going through the motions. He wanted his mom to tuck him in and tell him a story.

He wanted his dwarves so badly he thought he’d bleed from it.

But of course that wouldn’t happen. If he was feeling better when he woke up in the morning he could get back in the car and drive the rest of the way to Thorin’s place.

 _Why go at all,_ whispered the nasty voice in the back of his head, _they don’t need you there. They don’t really want you. You might as well turn around and go back where you belong. It’s what you deserve, after all._

“Shut up,” whined Bilbo, burying his face in the pillow.

_Dwalin and Thorin were happy together long before you came along and they’ll hardly notice when you leave. You don’t belong there, with them, with their family. Who do you think you are, you silly stupid hobbit?_

And Bilbo lay there in the dark, sobbing softly into his pillow, blowing stuffy his nose every other minute, and feeling more alone and sorry for himself than he had for a long, long while.

Eventually he managed to drift off into sleep, though it was far from restful and was plagued by the strange dreams a sickness can bring, all to sharp and too strange by half, the colours nearly violent in their vibrancy.

~*~

“But Arwen, I don’t like sports,” whined Bilbo, struggling to keep pace with the elf. That he was carrying a large peppermint latte topped with whipped cream didn’t help. Unfortunately Arwen was indifferent to his plight.

“It won’t be boring, I promise,” she said loftily.

“If you say so,” grumbled the hobbit.

Bilbo trailed after Arwen, looking around at the unfamiliar sports wing in equal parts curiosity and disgust. 

Strictly speaking sports were not Bilbo’s thing. Sports had never been a thing of any respectable hobbit. Oh, hobbits enjoyed their golf and conkers and perhaps the odd game of cricket. But the sweaty, violent, organized brawling that most sports masqueraded as was right out*. It was crude and warlike and was simply an excuse to get a concussion.

*In the more rural, backwater parts of the Shire, one could find tracker racing and hog wrangling if they knew where to look. 

Arwen however had gotten it into her head that Bilbo simply _had_ to sit in on one of the practice sessions of the Bree University football team, and hadn’t taken any variation of no as an answer.

To be fair, Bilbo was curious to finally see Arwen’s girlfriend Tauriel, another elf, this one the shining star player of the mixed (as in race and gender) football team. At least it seemed like Tauriel was the star of every game, but perhaps that was Arwen’s bias.

It was an odd friendship they had struck up, but when Bilbo had been paired with Arwen in his Khuzdul class they had found much in common despite their obvious differences.

Arwen smiled back at him, something smug and knowing in her gaze “You’ll see. It will be an education.”

“Well,” said Bilbo grandly as they shuffled onto the stands, “I’ll be sure to take notes, shall I?”

“You just might,” said Arwen. Before he could puzzle over that, Arwen made her way over to a dwarf in a funny hat and sat beside him, motioning for Bilbo to join them.

“Afternoon Arwen,” greeted the dwarf, giving a jaunty little nod.

“Hello Bofur,” she greeted breezily.

The dwarf, Bofur apparently, did a quick double take at Bilbo. “And _hello_ ,” he said, smiling much wider. He waggled his eyebrows, somehow making his hat jiggle up and down at the movement. “It’s not every day a bloke gets to meet a hobbit. Aren’t you going’ to introduce us?”

Bilbo grinned. “Yes Arwen, _do_.”

“Bofur, this is the esteemed Bilbo Baggins of Hobbiton,” said Arwen, doing her best not to roll her eyes. “And Bilbo, this is Bofur. He’s the dwarf to know if you want to know something.”

“Really?” asked Bilbo.

“I just might be, my fine hobbit.” Bofur tapped is nose conspiringly. Then he swept his hat off his head and gave a little bow. “A pleasure, master hobbit.”

“Just Bilbo, thank you. And likewise.”

“Fan of football, are ye?”

Bilbo smiled pleasantly. “Not at all.”

“Eh?”

“He’s never seen a proper match,” said Arwen.

“That so?”

“Mmm,” Bilbo took a sip of his latte. “Haven’t the foggiest idea what happens out there, really.”

“Well, if ye don’t mind me saying, that’s a right shame that is.”

The team began to trek out onto the field. Despite himself, Bilbo perked up, noticing a fair number of dwarves in their number. Nice, big, stocky dwarves. Maybe it wouldn’t be a total loss.

“Would ye like me ta go over the rules?” said Bofur.

“If you must,” said Bilbo. He was beginning to enjoy himself. Bother Arwen and her knowing smiles.

“Right! So to start off, there’s yer goalie, one apiece for each team, and then there’s the other players who hafta get that there ball into the net. Simple enough, but there’s other bits you’ve gotta know about to really…”

The words washed over him. Bilbo took a long sip of his latté, savoring the flavour. He licked his lips lazily, chasing a bit of whipped cream. His eyes traced the stocky figures on the field below with interest.

Bofur came to a lull in his explanation.

“I didn’t understand any of that,” he told Bofur.

“Aye?”

Arwen dissolved into laughter, trying her best to muffle it in her hand. “Bilbo!”

“What? I study languages, not sports jargon.”

Bofur stared for a moment. A bright grin broke across his face and he laughed heartily. “Here, I like you, lad. Just up and say it.”

“Right?”

“So what brings a fine languageable chap like yerself to our fine arena?”

“ _Linguist._ ”

Bofur grinned. “What I said. Say, good with your tongue, are ye?”

Bilbo smiled lazily. “Maybe.”

“Oh _ho_. I’d bet that’s a yes. You’d ought to meet Nori. There’s a fellow that can talk himself out of all the trouble his tongue gets him into. And not just with his tongue, aye?”

“There she is!” announced Arwen, staring down at the field.

“Is that her?” asked Bilbo, leaning forward in his seat. “With the long red hair?”

Arwen beamed, eyes tracing the lithe form of a young elf woman running out onto the field. “Yes. That’s Tauriel.”

The elf in question scanned the bleachers, catching sight of Arwen. A huge stupid grin breaking across her face. “Evenstar!” She yelled, bolting over the side of the arena and beaming up at them. “Hi.” It looked like it took everything the elf had not the climb out of the arena.

“Hello Tauriel.” Arwen’s vice was very fond, her eyes soft as she gazed down at the overeager elf on the field.

“You came to see me!”

“I always come to see you.”

“Yeah,” sighed Tauriel dreamily. “You _do._ ”

“How is practice?”

“We just started, but I already beat Kholi in kickball in the locker room. I wiped the floor with him!”

“That’s my girl.”

“It’s always like this when they’re together,” muttered Bofur. 

“Oh hush,” said the hobbit, “Let them. I think it’s sweet.”

“Come on, red! We’re starting,” called another voice.

Bilbo stared at the dwarf the voice came from.

Oh.

Oh my, oh _my_.

Arwen was correct once again; this _was_ an education.

Bilbo became aware for Bofur gently prodding him.

“Hmm?”

He was met with a cheeky grin. Bofur twirled his impressive mustache. “Does our esteemed Master Baggins see something he likes?”

Bilbo swallowed, eyes back on the dwarf below them. “Maybe. Maybe I do.”

“Oh aye? What you’re looking at is a Thorin Oakenshiled.”

“Thorin,” said Bilbo under his breath.

“Aye. Excellent chap really. Profile like a King that one. Just as noble too, the bugger. A noble and charismatic leader on the field, but quiet as anything when he’s off it. Bit of a softy, our Thorin is.”

“Tell me, is—he’s not—what are the chances he’s single _and_ gay?”

Bofur chuckled warmly, “You’d be surprised. Though, I have to tell you he’s a packaged set.”

“Sorry?”

“See over by the net there, that wall of a dwarf, with the tattoos on his head, aye?”

“Yes, I--oh.” Bilbo stared. “ _Oh._ ” 

He did see. He saw and he liked very much.

Bofur made an amused sound beside him. “Have a type, have we?”

“Who’s—“

“Dwalin Fundinson. A more loyal bloke you’d be hard to find. Don’t worry, he looks rough but he wouldn’t hurt a fly. Eh, unless the fly had it out for someone he liked.”

“Oh.” Bilbo sighed dreamily.

“As I was saying, they’re a set they are.”

Bilbo blinked, his heart plummeting. “They’re together?”

“Aye, and I don’t think that’ll ever change.”

“Oh.” Bilbo looked down at his lap, feeling very foolish. “I see.”

Bofur gave his shoulder a friendly nudge. “Here now! Don’t you go looking all glum on me now. Have some faith in old Bofur! I happen to know they’re open to a third.”

“A—a third?”

“That’s it, lad. Like I said, they’re a set. You get both or none at all.”

“Both?”

The stream of images that paraded through Bilbo’s head would have single handedly scandalized the entire Baggins clan into giving up food for the rest of the day.

“Oh… _both_.”

“Here, I’ll tell you what. I like you, Mr. Hobbit, and I can think of a few other dwarves who just might as well. What say we go meet up with them after practice, eh? I can get you an introduction. We always go out and get something to eat. Want to come with?”

Bilbo stared at him with wide eyes. “Really? Oh, I don’t…I don’t even _know_ them.”

“The whole team goes out for something to eat after. You can come along as Arwen’s friend—she comes sometimes when she doesn’t run off with Tauriel.”

“Are you sure?” asked Bilbo wretchedly, torn between years of ingrained social etiquette and the prospect of talking to two, huge, gorgeous dwarves. “I don’t want to intrude.”

“O’ course I’m sure! Arwen, lass, tell him I’m sure.”

“He’s sure, Bilbo,” said Arwen, not looking away from Tauriel. “Just come along. You won’t be intruding. I’ll be there as well. It’ll be fine.”

“See?” said Bofur triumphantly. 

“I’ll be there too!” called Tauriel.

“Yes, you can meet my hobbit friend properly,” said Arwen.

“Awesome! Hi Bilbo!”

“Hullo,” said Bilbo, giving her a little wave.

“There, see? Overruled,” said Bofu smugly.

“Well...”

“‘Side’s, I’d like to introduce you to my partner Nori. He’s the other red-head down there, with the tri-point up-do.”

Bilbo found the figure on the field. “Cuts quite the figure, doesn’t he?”

“Oh that he does, that he does,” Bofur winked at him. “Come on. If it doesn’t work out, no harm done. But if it _does_ —just think of that!”

The chances of both Thorin and Dwalin finding him attractive were slim, Bilbo had to admit. But it couldn’t hurt to try. Maybe they’d turn out to be appalling people and that would be the end of it. But maybe not.

In any case, he rather liked Bofur and thought there was real potential to be good friends. Meeting more of his group would be very interesting.

And besides, there would be a meal. No hobbit could overlook that part.

Bilbo took a deep breath. “All right. All right! You’ve convinced me.”

“There’s a lad!”

“Let’s meet these dwarves.”

~*~

It was still dark when Bilbo groggily opened his eyes again, disoriented and confused. He registered that he still felt awful, and that something had happened that made him feel like a sandwich that had fallen off its tray, been kicked under the sofa and forgotten for several days.

The phone was ringing. Not his mobile. The landline he could just make out on the bedside table. He squinted at it stupidly for a long moment before grabbing it. 

“…H-hullo?” His voice came out thin and warbled. If everything felt less surreal it would have bothered him.

“Mr. Baggins?”

“Mmm?” Bilbo rubbed his sore eyes and tried to focus. 

“This is Ceila, from the front desk.”

“Oh. Yes.”

“I’m sorry to disturb you, but there are some dwarves here at the front desk asking to see you.”

He squeezed his eyes shut and willed his brain to wake up and make sense of things. “Ngh,” he managed.

“There’s five of them here. Two large fellows, an older dwarf, one with an impressive up-do and another with a braided hat.”

Suddenly Bilbo was much more awake. “What?” He sat upright, eyes wide in the gloom.

“One of them is calling himself Thorin. Do you know these people?” There was a sudden edge in the elf’s voice. “I can send them away. Just say the word, I won’t have any of my guests bothered.”

“Thorin’s there?” Bilbo swallowed, clutching the phone desperately. “Dwalin too?”

“Why don’t you tell me what they look like?”

“Dwalin’s big, he’s bald on top with inkings on his head. Thorin has long dark hair and ridiculously blue eyes.”

“Right, that checks out.”

Bilbo’s heart gave a hard thump in his chest. “They’re here,” he said, struggling to believe it.

“Shall I send them up?”

“Oh, _yes_ , please.”

“Right you are Mister Baggins.”

Bilbo sat on the bed staring at door for several long desperate moments, the single thought of they’re here, they’re here crashing through his head. Then he realized he ought to get up and turn on a light and for goodness sake stop gawking.

Before he could do any of those things there was sound out in the hallway. Light spilled in suddenly as the door opened, omitting a triumphant looking Nori.

“Aha! I told you, who needs a key card when you’ve got—“

“Bilbo!”

Dwalin, Thorin, Bofur and Oin burst in behind Nori. Bilbo stared at them.

“What are you all doing here?”

“We weren’t about to leave our favourite hobbit all alone out here.”

“Wait—“ Bilbo pushed at Thorin’s chest as the dwarf pressed a kiss to his forehead, “Wait, M’ sick.”

“That’s what I’m here for laddie.”

“Oin?”

“Come on you two, let the wee thing have some air.”

Thorin grumbled but drew back a little. Dwalin stayed where he was, a steady warmth against Bilbo’s back.

“Let me have a look at you,” muttered Oin, peering intently at the hobbit.

“Is it bad?” asked Thorin, voice rough and tense.

“Needs fluids and plenty of rest,” declared Oin, ignoring Thorin. “No more driving for you, Bilbo. You did the right thing in stopping. Good lad.”

“I…how—what are you all doing here? You should be at home.”

“So should you.”

“What time is it?!” he asked aghast.

“That’s not—“ started Thorin.

“Half past three in the morning,” said Bofur cheerfully.

“What on earth were you thinking! You should be home with your family. You’ve got to get back!”

“We will. We had to get you first.”

“I…” Bilbo felt his eyes fill with tears. “You didn’t have to.”

“Yes we did,” growled Dwalin. 

“Come on Bilbo,” said Nori with a smile, “Do you really think any of us don’t consider you family at this point?”

“Oh.”

And there were the water works again.

Dwalin carefully dried his tears with a handkerchief. It was one that Bilbo had given him last year, more jokingly then anything. Now Dwalin wouldn’t be caught dead without it.

“Come on, Ghivashel,” said Thorin, pressing another kiss to his temple. “Let’s get your coat on.”

In no time at all the dwarves had his belongings gathered up, and after a quick trip to the bathroom they were off.

“Leaving already, Mister Baggins?” asked Ceila as the group of them shuffled into the entryway.

“Yes,” said Bilbo a bit breathlessly. He made for the desk, Thorin and Dwalin hovering behind him like giant brooding hens. “Yes, thank you so much.”

“It was a pleasure having you.” The elf smiled kindly at him. “I do hope you’re feeling better soon. Here, have a complimentary sweet.” Bilbo looked at the little bowl, noting it was full of what looked suspiciously like cough drops. He took one.

“Thank you.”

“Do be careful now.”

“How do I sign out?”

“Already taken care of. Merry Yule.”

“Merry Yule,” said Bilbo, a little bewildered. Then he was being herded outside and into the parking lot. It was cold. The clouds had cleared up leaving the sky crisp and dark, full of stars twinkling brightly above them. Dwalin’s arm wrapped round his back and Thorin’s hand in his own kept the worst of the chill at bay. The cold air was cleared his head, chasing away some of the grogginess.

They were nearly at Thorin’s large volkswagon when Bilbo ground to a halt. “My car! We can’t leave the poor thing here!” 

“Way ahead of you Bilbo,” called Nori across the parking lot. He watched as Nori opened the door of Bilbo’s own car, ducking inside. Bofur gave him a cheerful wave before getting inside himself.

“They’ll drive it back to ours for you, Ibinê,” said Thorin reassuringly.

“I didn’t give him the keys,” said Bilbo.

“Wouldn’t put it past that one to swipe them,” grumbled Dwalin. “Doubt he needs them anyway.”

Dwalin ushered him into their car, Thorin taking the wheel and Oin sliding into the passenger seat. Bilbo did up his seat-belt, head still spinning from this unexpected turn of events. He sniffled, digging out his handkerchief and giving his nose a vicious blow. Dwalin sat down beside him, closing the door.

The car started up and they slowly made their way out of the parking lot and back onto the mountain road.

A sneeze caught the hobbit by surprise. Then another. “’Pardon me,” he murmured.

He was exhausted.

“Come here,” Dwalin said softly, tugging him down. Bilbo gladly snuggled into his chest, leaning all of his weight into his boyfriend. He snuffled, eyes drooping.

“M’ sick,” he half mumbled into Dwalin’s jacket.

“Aye Ibinê.” Dwalin’s great hand ran up and down his back in soothing strokes. “That ye are.” Bilbo sniffed again, melting even further into the dwarf like a grumpy hobbit marshmallow in a steaming mug of hot cocoa. “We’ve got ye now,” rumbled Dwalin. “You’ll be alrigh’.”

Up front he could hear Oin and Thorin arguing about something, Dwalin’s low rumble joining in occasionally. It was warm. His head felt muzzy and stuffy and his nose was sore from how much he’d blown it. 

Bilbo nuzzled sleepily into the folds of Dwalin’s jacket and let the gentle motions of the car and the static behind his eyes carry him off to sleep.

~*~

“…want to wake him up.”

“He’ll not be happy about it, you mark me.”

“He’s already sick. I reckon he’s not going to be happy no mater what happens.”

The sudden feeling of motion jolted Bilbo out of his comfortable half dose, and he startled, flailing about in sluggish panic. His foot collided with something fleshy. There was a loud yelp.

“Oi!”

“Wussat?” said Bilbo, struggling to get his bearings.

“Easy, _easy_ ghivashel.”

“I told you!”

“What—put me _down!_ ” cried Bilbo.

“Kurdul, you are ill—”

“— _You’re_ ill!” countered Bilbo. Nori sniggered off to his left. 

“I don’t want you exerting yourself,” said Thorin, looking very worried.

“And _I_ refuse to meet your parents in person for the first time being carried inside like a sack of potatoes!” Bilbo wriggled, trying to escape Dwalin’s hold.

“Ibinê”

“Just put him down already, Dwalin,” said Oin. “Wee thing’s not even that sick.”

“Thank you!” huffed Bilbo.

Dwalin carefully let Bilbo down into the snow. He wobbled a little on his feet, clutching at Dwalin’s jacket for support. 

“Here,’’ murmured Dwalin, tipping Bilbo away from him. Large hands curled around his shoulders from behind. Bilbo sniffled and gladly turned around to burrow into Thorin instead.

“How are you feeling?” asked Thorin’s graveling voice. Bilbo allowed himself to sink into the sturdy form of his boyfriend, closing his eyes.

“Tired. Groggy. Better than before.”

“Do you want to lie down?”

“I want to meet your parents. And not get everyone sick.”

“Aww, what’s the matter Bilbo?” said Nori. Bilbo opened his eyes to frown at the dwarf. ”Don’t want to give us all the gift of the flu?”

Bilbo stuck his tongue out. Then he stared at Nori. “…Did I kick you in the face?”

“That’s alright,” laughed Bofur, coming up beside Nori and patting him on the back. “Won’t be the first or the last time.”

“Yeah, true enough.” 

“Come on you lot, start bringing this in!” called Dwalin, walking by with what looked like half of Bilbo’s various gift bags hefted in his arms.

“No but really, I don’t want to get everyone sick,” insisted Bilbo.

“You won’t” called Bofur.

Bilbo frowned.

“’E’s right, laddie,” said Oin, giving him a pat. “Dwarves rarely get sick. Doubt a hobbit sickness would catch.”

“But we don’t _know_ it’s a hobbit sickness,” argued Bilbo. “I could have picked it up anywhere.”

“You slept on Dwalin for a good two hours. He’s fine,” said Thoirn reasonably.

“What if it takes a while to show?”

“Ghivashel, please stop worrying. It will be fine.”

Bilbo gave him a half-hearted scowl. “You don’t know that.”

“No,” said Thorin fondly. “But I know my family will love you. They already do from talks over skype.”

“Hrmm,” said Bilbo. He sniffled and then sneezed, rubbing his nose grumpily.

“Come. Outside in the snow is no place for our hobbit.”

“Thorin?”

“Yes?”

“What time is it?”

“Half past six.”

“We are not going inside and waking everyone up!”

“Relax,” said Nori, walking by with several gift bags. “They get up early anyways. Comes with old age or something.”

“How convenient,” muttered Bilbo.

“Come inside, Bilbo,” urged Thorin, tugging him towards the house. “Please. I promise you have nothing to worry about.”

“Except Fridís smothering you with food,” said Dwalin, coming up beside him.

“It’s adad I’m worried about,” said Thorin, giving Dwalin a quick kiss on the cheek. “He keeps hinting we should be courting you properly.”

“Oh!”

“Yes, he thinks you’re quite the catch,” said Thorin, smiling down at him.

“Have to agree meself,” said Dwalin, ruffling Bilbo’s curls.

“All right, all right.” Bilbo sighed dramatically. He bushed himself off and straightened his jacket. “Let’s go meet your family.”

~*~

Bilbo drummed his fingers on the back of his phone, something heavy lurking in the pit of his stomach. In the other room he could hear Fili and Kili yelling, playing one of their new video games. Thorin and Dwalin had been coerced into joining them, the four playing some kind of racing game with lots of explosions and silly sound effects. Balin and Bifur were playing an intense game of chess that had been surprisingly hard to rip himself away from watching. Fridís, Thorin’s mother, was watching everyone from the kitchen as she mixed the dough for dumplings together. Thrain sat in his chair next to her, helping his wife prepare. Bilbo couldn’t see anyone else from the backroom he’d hidden away in, but he could hear the sounds of people all through the cozy little house.

“Hullo?”

Bilbo froze, taking a moment to collect himself. “Hey Dad,” he said.

“Bilbo lad!” came Bungo’s voice, warm and comfortable across the line. “It’s wonderful to hear from you. Merry Yule!”

“Merry Yule,” said Bilbo. “How…how are you?”

“Oh, I’m just fine my boy, just fine. We’ve been playing charades,” he said almost conspiringly. “And I think they might even be enjoying themselves.”

Bilbo laughed. “Really? That I’d have to see. Didn’t think that lot knew how to have fun. ”

“Well, a bit of eggnog helps relax even the most uptight soul, my boy.”

“And just how much did you spike it?”

“Why, I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.”

Bilbo grinned. “Of _course_ not.”

“We’re going over to see your grandfather in the evening, but for now it’s just a few of us.”

“That sounds nice.” Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad if there were only a few aunts and uncles. And heavily spiked eggnog.

“But enough about me. How are you? Was the drive ok? How are your dwarves?”

“I’m all right. Er.” Bilbo sniffed. “Actually, I’m sick.”

“Oh no. Oh _dear_ , you poor thing! Is it very bad?”

“No, no it’s fine. I, er. Got here a little late, but everyone’s been so kind to me. Thorin’s mother’s been making me ginger tea every hour, and Thorin’s father keeps fussing over me with blankets.”

“Well I’m glad to hear it!”

“It’s embarrassing!” 

“Nonsense. You deserve to be fussed over, my dear boy.”

“Thorin and Dwalin have been even worse. And the rest of the lot aren’t much better.”

“Good. They sound like excellent people.”

“Yeah. Yeah, they are. Um.” Bilbo bit his lip. “Um… Dad. You do know…” He took a deep breath. “You do know I, I love you, don’t you?”

Bungo was silent for a moment. “Oh, my dear lad. Of course I do.”

“Oh. Good.”

“Bilbo.” Bungo’s voice was vey soft. “I know things haven’t been easy since, since your mother…” he sighed. “I don’t tell you nearly enough just how proud of you I am. How much I love you.

Tears pricked at Bilbo’s eyes. He wiped them away angrily, sniffling. 

“You remind me of her so much, you know. She would be so proud.”

“Maybe—“ Bilbo swallowed and tried again. “Maybe when I get back I could come over for a little? Stay at Bag End for a few days?”

“I’d be delighted, Bilbo lad.”

“Maybe Dwalin and Thorin could stay over too?”

“Certainly! They must! I’ve only met the charming young dwarrow my son’s set his cap at twice now. That’s not nearly enough.”

Bilbo laughed, a little wetly. “They like you. Thorin was very impressed with Bag End. He thought it was very homey and comfortable. And I think Dwalin’s fallen in love with your oatmeal biscuits. He keeps talking about them!”

“Sensible lads then, excellent. I’d like to meet the rest of them someday. I’d like to thank them all for taking such good care of you.”

“You should! You—you know, dad. You could come up to the Blue Mountains sometime.”

Bungo spluttered. “Me? Travel!”

“Yes, you could.”

“Well I—“ he huffed. “You know, I should.”

“What?!” 

“I might be a Baggins but I married a Took after all.”

“Really? You’d come up?”

“If it would make you happy, then of course. I can handle a little adventure. But—er. I don’t suppose someone else could do the driving? I don’t much fancy the thought of braving those mountains roads.”

That startled a laugh out of Bilbo. “No, no me neither!”

When Bilbo came back into the den it was with a heart both lighter and fuller then it had been in some time. He plopped down into Dwalin’s lap and promptly kissed him on the mouth. Then he leaned over and gave Thorin the same treatment. Both dwarves were staring at him with very soppy looks on their faces.

“Aww yes!” screeched Kili. Something violent happened on the screen. “Thanks Bilbo! Guess who’s in first now!”

“Yeah, thanks Bilbo!” laughed Fili. “Second place! Whoo! Take that uncle Dwalin!”

“Nah, I’ve got me a hobbit,” said Dwalin, giving Bilbo a little squeeze. “That’s the better prize.”

Fili rolled his eyes. “Sure uncle. Hey Bilbo, you wanna play?”

“Yeah Bilbo, play!” cheered Kili.

“Well, I suppose...”

Bilbo shifted in Dwalin’s lap, getting comfy. He held the controller in his hands, trying to figure out how to use it.

“After all, “ he said, a smile tugging at his mouth, “I could do with a bit more driving practice.”


End file.
